The Strand Magazine, Vol. 17, No. 97, January to June 1899: An Illustrated MonthlyVarious
General
The Strand Magazine, Vol. 17, No. 97, January to June 1899: An Illustrated Monthly
Various
English literature -- Periodicals; Short stories, English -- Periodicals
"Not where it ought to see. There, it pierces everything. I knew you
instantly, Harold. But all London, I am sure, would pass you by,
unknown. You are absolute Orient."
"That's well; for all London is looking for me," he answered, bitterly.
"The streets bristle with detectives. Southminster's knaveries have won
the day. So I have tried this disguise. Otherwise, I should have been
arrested the moment the jury brought in their verdict."
"And why were you not?" I asked, drawing back. "Oh, Harold, I trust
you; but why did you disappear and make all the world believe you
admitted yourself guilty?"
He opened his arms. "Can't you guess?" he cried, holding them out to me.
I nestled in them once more; but I answered through my tears--I had
found tears now--"No, Harold; it baffles me."
"You remember what you promised me?" he murmured, leaning over me and
clasping me. "If ever I were poor, friendless, hunted--you would marry
me. Now the opportunity has come when we can both prove ourselves.
To-day, except you and dear Georgey, I haven't a friend in the world.
Everyone else has turned against me. Southminster holds the field. I am
a suspected forger; in a very few days I shall doubtless be a convicted
felon. Unjustly, as you know; yet still--we must face it--a convicted
felon. So I have come to claim you. I have come to ask you now, in this
moment of despair, will you keep your promise?"
I lifted my face to his. He bent over it trembling. I whispered the
words in his ear. "Yes, Harold, I will keep it. I have always loved
you. And now I will marry you."
"I knew you would!" he cried, and pressed me to his bosom.
We sat for some minutes, holding each other's hands, and saying
nothing; we were too full of thought for words. Then suddenly, Harold
roused himself. "We must make haste, darling," he cried. "We are
keeping Partab outside, and every minute is precious, every minute's
delay dangerous. We ought to go down at once. Partab's carriage is
waiting at the door for us."
"Go down?" I exclaimed, clinging to him. "How? Why? I don't understand.
What is your programme?"
"Ah, I forgot I hadn't explained to you! Listen here, dearest--quick;
I can waste no words over it. I said just now I had no friends in the
world but you and Georgey. That's not true, for dear old Partab has
stuck to me nobly. When all my English friends fell away, the Rajput
was true to me. He arranged all this; it was his own idea; he foresaw
what was coming. He urged me yesterday, just before the verdict (when
he saw my acquaintances beginning to look askance), to slip quietly
out of court, and make my way by unobtrusive roads to his house in
Curzon Street. There, he darkened my face like his, and converted me to
Hinduism. I don't suppose the disguise will serve me for more than a
day or two; but it will last long enough for us to get safely away to
Scotland."
"Scotland?" I murmured. "Then you mean to try a Scotch marriage?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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